


The Silent Lowdown

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Episode: s09e11 First Born, Pre-Slash, Sam and Castiel healing together, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Episode Trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's health deteriorates following his brush with Cain; surprisingly, not because of it. Castiel hunts him down and drags him back to the Bunker to recuperate. </p><p>But this isn't about Castiel.</p><p>Well, half of it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silent Lowdown

When Dean turned up with nothing more than a serious cold, it was almost a relief. The symptoms were treatable with Dayquil, for once - not angel feathers and mummy dust and prayers to weird old gods. Bacteria and viruses didn't care, though, that Dean was the Michael Sword, or the Righteous Man, or bore the Mark of Cain. Viruses apparently weren't worried about the damage being returned upon them sevenfold. Probably couldn't make much of a dent in the common cold virus population, anyway. Irony.

Being who he was, Dean pushed on, buying non-drowsy decongestants when his inability to breathe interfered with his offensive game. Normally he'd hole up, nurse away a cold like this with bowls of microwaved soup and reruns of _Doctor Sexy, M.D._ But his current mission (and the guilt that tangled up in it all) built on his shoulders until he kept moving just to run. Just to stay a step ahead of his thoughts and wear himself to an exhausted shadow. The burgers and the four-hour sleeps and the decongestants instead of real healing finally caught up with him, when he couldn't get out of bed at all. Just couldn't. The hate and anger that could power him through even broken ribs were like hailstones against this. He felt like lead, too heavy for his own muscles, but scrabbled the phone off the nightstand anyway. God, like it or not he needed Sam. Needed Cas. Needed _somebody._ If demons caught him today, as much of a threat to Abaddon as a bologna sandwich, then everything was a waste.

But maybe he could call someone else. People didn't die from this sort of thing, right? Dean folded up the phone and curled tired fingers around it, letting his head flop back to the pillow.

Castiel arrived while he was still sorting contacts through a fog of exhaustion. Still stuck in a vessel, the angel jimmied the lock the old fashioned way and let himself in. Dean would have been proud of that any other day. But the look on his face was terrible, disappointed, and Dean tried to say something cruel to wipe it away. Nothing came out but a dry, painful exhale.

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced together between his knees. "If you want to be alone, you should take better care of yourself, Dean. Otherwise this only makes you more of a liability than you currently are. And if you didn't want me to detect your distress, you should not have thought of me last night."

Dean glared at him in silence, then turned his face away.

"You're coming home with me," Castiel said, "but I have to conserve my strength to continue healing Sam. I'll augment your immune system and strength today, but you are responsible for getting better after that."

Dean shook his head. Castiel leveled that disappointed look on him again, rolled his eyes, and sighed. "I don't recall giving you an option," he added roughly, and got up to retrieve the jeans folded on the dresser.

-

Castiel glimpsed the mark while Dean was dressing. He was suddenly in Dean's space, an iron hand on his elbow to turn his forearm up.

"What did you **do?** " Castiel drawled dangerously, the words dark and rusty with fear.

Dean stared back at him. Defiant, even if he had the energy of a week-old kitten and no way to defend himself. Castiel tried to touch the mark, failed, tried again, and sighed again. Deeper this time. More frustrated.

He could really cut the sighing crap out. Who did he think he was, Dean's mother?

Castiel brought him home without further comment. As in, none. Other than occasionally asking if he had to pee or needed more medication, which Dean took deep personal offense to but didn't have the energy to do more than nod or shake his head. The bastard probably only gave him enough juice to keep him pliant. Wouldn't put it past him. When the Bunker loomed up by the roadside at last, Dean tried not to squirm away.

-

Sam was worried about him. Dean couldn't look at him, and had a pretty good idea Sam couldn't make eye contact either, but worry lined Sam's hands and his voice and the downturn of his mouth, all of which Dean knew like his own reflection. He helped get Dean inside without comment, clearly already debriefed on the situation, and left to do something illness-related. Boil water, make soup, see if the Men of Letters had a stash of Vicks somewhere. It was a little comfort to see Sam worry, although it didn't displace the rough lump of guilt.

Not surprisingly, Castiel charged himself with most of Dean's care. They didn't baby him, sick as he was, and Dean was grudgingly grateful for that. Occasionally Castiel would keep him company while he ate - which he didn't completely mind - but otherwise he only came in to deliver medicine or food; hand Dean a thermometer or the bottle of Vick's that someone DID find somewhere; or replace the box of tissues and move out the plastic sack of used ones. Dean hated being a sickly snot-factory all the more for the kindnesses he was being given free of trade. He hadn't earned this, hadn't redeemed himself enough to warrant this kind of help, but here it was anyway.

A couple times Sam came in to check on him. Dean usually pretended to be asleep for these. Twice he caught Dean with Castiel and a bowl of soup, but as Dean still couldn't speak, the conversation flowed around him instead. Somewhen, somehow, between Dean's departure and now, Sam and Castiel had become a team. A unit. They talked easily now, exchanges laced with humor and easy camaraderie.

It was only awkward when aimed at Dean.

He wasn't sure what to do with that.

He kept the mark covered, and Castiel never commented on it.

-

In two days he could leave his room on his own steam. He did so as quickly as possible, retreating even faster from the bulwark of exclusion. Still silenced by his raw throat (which Castiel adamantly refused to fix), Dean found himself slipping into the background of the day-to-day. Not only had his brother and the angel developed some kind of understanding, they had a rhythm and pattern of their own. That tension between them since the first day Castiel introduced himself was gone. 

The were in each other's space all the friggin' _time._ They _cooked_ together. Like team cooking. Like, the kind of cooking on the Food Network. When Sam and Dean ate, Castiel joined them, with the comfort of someone who had been doing so for some time. Periodically Sam would ask Castiel if he'd ever tried one of the foods on his plate. Broccoli. Squash. Italian dressing. Cabbage. Lima beans. Things Dean couldn't believe he was expected to eat. If the answer was no, Castiel got a taste, while Sam waited attentively for the verdict. When they tried to explain this weird ritual, Dean threw up his hands. He couldn't tell them that he expected them to braid Sam's hair and paint each other's fingernails next, but he could damn sure excuse himself before they found a polish in his color.

But as the next few days wore on, Dean began to notice things. Things he still lacked the voice to dismiss. The way Sam relaxed as he answered one of Castiel's questions. Sam's pauses were longer. He said some things; used some words Dean rarely heard. He also shied away as he said them, or laughed as he ripped apart his own theories. Castiel's puzzlement over Sam's behavior, and Sam's clear surprise at Castiel's willingness to consider his opinion gave Dean pause in turn.

But he wasn't a fool. Blind, sure. Loud, you bet. But not a fool.

When the congestion lessened and his voice began to return, Dean babied it. He kept on listening. He knew his welcome would only continue as long as he kept this silence up, and Dean wanted Sam's presence just a hair too much. Kevin's absence and Sam's awkward withdrawals would drive Dean out soon. Nothing was fixed. He didn't have the right to be here. He saw something in Sam, alongside Castiel, that he hadn't seen in years. The poisonous, trailing creepers of blame and self-doubt and guilt were still there. But the frantic need had lessened. Sam's eyes steadied; met Castiel's often now (if not Dean's). There was a kernel of something good inside Sam. Something good kept him rooted here, not halfway towards dead and stretching out for the rest of the void.

Like a punch to the gut, Dean understood. Sam was important to someone and knew it.

He tried to leave that night, but Castiel caught him. Castiel didn't sleep anymore, of course he'd be on friggin' patrol.

"Dean."

Dean pulled open the Impala's driver side door, the creak loud and empty in the garage. When he was too delirious to worry, someone must have gone to get his car. The vague snippets of memory around Dean's rescue gnawed the leaving itch into a raw burn. "Look, I gotta go, Cas. I'm better, okay? I'm not a liability." Dean's voice was still rough, but his own again.

Castiel kept on walking towards the car. "You're a liability as long as you bear the Mark of Cain. I don't know how you got it, but you have to get rid of it."

Dean tossed his duffel across the seat and shook his head. He leaned on the cab. "If it means I can take down Abaddon, I'm not losing it 'til the job's done."

Castiel squinted at him like a stranger. Or a tough math problem. "Gadreel is not in league with Abaddon. He's in league with Metatron. _He's_ responsible for Kevin's death, not her."

When Dean didn't answer, Castiel's frown deepened. "What are you really doing, Dean?"

Dean opened his mouth to lash out. There were a thousand ways to hurt Castiel, just long enough to escape. But he couldn't. Not now. Not with the way Sam looked at Castiel these days. Dean's eyes dropped. "It's what I have to do."

Castiel's hand was suddenly on Dean's shoulder. "We need you here." He looked down at the forearm of Dean's jacket. Dean felt the Mark twinge beneath as if it sensed Castiel's disapproval. "Furthermore, I'm concerned about your decision-making paradigm. I think you should stay."

For a brief instant, Dean remembered this conversation. Different words, different place, different sides. He'd asked Castiel to stop, and Castiel left. Castiel let out the Leviathan.

What sort of monster was waiting under the Mark?

Easy answer.

Dean coiled back into himself. He could see Castiel was worried, but he couldn't afford to let that stop him. If he'd screwed his soul for eternity, no big, it wasn't like Hell was an unknown, or like his landing there was any surprise. He could even step up to the torture table with a smile on his face, knowing that the last of the Knights of Hell was in the ground for good. Then with Crowley's help, he'd get Gadreel, and this chapter would be over.

Dean shrugged off Castiel's hand. "You're doing good with Sam, Cas. Keep it up," he said, as he slumped into the driver's seat and shut himself in. 

Castiel stepped back. "I'm only aiding him, Dean. He's doing better because he has hope." You would too, Castiel seemed to say, fingers curling over the open driver's side windowsill.

"Yeah, well," Dean turned the car over, "he didn't get that from Dad's side of the family." He put it in drive, slow, until the forward roll peeled Castiel's fingers away.


End file.
